


The Best Laid Plans

by au_sein_et_sans



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Modern Era, Pining, Wedding Planner AU, enjoltaire - Freeform, exr - Freeform, its cute you'll see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 09:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8200360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/au_sein_et_sans/pseuds/au_sein_et_sans
Summary: Wedding Planner AU: Grantaire is a wedding planner, and Enjolras needs a wedding planned, it's as simple as that. Except that it's not simple - not at all.





	1. January

The sign on the shop face was gold, which had been Eponine’s choice, just six block letters spelling out the word “ETREAL”. The office was tucked in between a shoe store called Candie’s and a bookstore called The Romano Library. Etreal was an unassuming presence on the street, one of those stores that one could walk past every day and never register. Not until someone finally popped the question.

Grantaire never thought he’d work as a wedding planner. If someone had asked him ten years prior, ‘what do you wanna be, kid?’, he might have actually thought about it. Instead, no one asked him anything - never even implied that he could amount to anything more than the hand that was dealt to him. So that was why, when his aunt offered him a job at her new office, Grantaire finished undergraduate school and answered her with a resounding ‘yes’.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care for marriage. He truly just didn’t form any opinions around it. He had no great conceptions about love, either. In all honesty, Grantaire did not equate what he did every day with either of those ideas. He handled weddings - one perfect, romantic day - that faded into a memory as soon as it was over. Grantaire’s job was not to ensure domestic success, nor was it to judge the likelihood of a couple’s chances together, but to simulate one perfect day. One perfect day, over and over, for every couple who walked through the door.

He lived by wedding planning. Eating, sleeping, and his own (unfortunate) love life were all secondary. If there was one thing that he knew he could do right, it was this.

 

 

The bell above the door chimed a familiar song as the door opened, late afternoon. It was January.

January was Etreal’s biggest wedding month. It was right after all of those holiday proposals, all of those relatives egging young bachelors and bachelorettes to pull the trigger and just get it over with. People facing a chilling winter, and deciding they never want to live through one alone, ever again. January was a time for forward-thinkers to plan summer weddings - these were the clients that Grantaire liked the best.

He was well within his rhythm of the day when Enjolras found the building. Eponine was in the kitchen in the back of the office (which was only there “to give the office a more _authentic feel_!” Grantaire’s aunt had insisted) making coffee, and Grantaire was poring over the pictures taken of Bahorel’s (latest) wedding, choosing the best ones to put up on the website.

When the chime rang, a man entered, wearing a thick coat, snow dusting his shoulders, and the opening of the door swept a jarring wind through the office. Grantaire leapt at the feeling of cold air on the back of his neck, making his glasses slip down his nose, and the newest client turned into the phantom outline of a person, approaching. Grantaire quickly tapped his glasses farther up his nose and rose to meet the man approaching him.

As soon as he did, Grantaire felt the air knocked out of him.

This new client, who introduced himself as Enjolras, was undeniably some hypothermia-induced hallucination. Grantaire felt the urge to discard all of Bahorel’s wedding portraitures and use Enjolras’s for Etreal’s website instead. Hell - a hasty scribbling of Enjolras’s features on a napkin could’ve served for the welcome page, and Grantaire’s aunt might not even mind. They could change their slogan to: _This man used Etreal for his wedding, and so should you!_

Grantaire hadn’t realized he’d been sort of silently gaping until Eponine appeared at his side with a steaming mug of coffee.

“Hello, sir! Welcome to Etreal,” she said, chipperly, “If Grantaire can’t find it in himself to close his mouth, I can be of service at the desk across the way.”

“Uh,” said Enjolras.

Grantaire figured he should say something, to at least put himself back in the running for Functional Human Being, and so as to not let Eponine snag the new client _and_ the satisfaction. He allowed himself a moment to gape more, just to admire the snowflakes gently peppering Enjolras’s silken hair, before he surged into action.

“I’m Grantaire,” he announced, triumphantly, and Eponine gave a half scowl-half smirk in his direction, before lovingly setting down his coffee and waltzing back to her desk. “I can help with a wedding, if you need.”

Enjolras gave him a bizarre kind of smile, “that might be exactly what I need, yes.”

“Great!” Grantaire resounded, overly saccharine. He began to twist the silver ring on his finger. “Feel free to take a seat!” _No, offer to take his coat._ “I mean, take off your coat!” _What are you doing - ordering him around?_ “I mean…feel free? To take off your coat?” Grantaire had thoroughly confused himself. “If you want.”

He could hear Eponine choke down a derisive laugh. He pointedly did not look at her.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras’s voice grew impossibly sober, as he sat down in the giant, purple, corduroy chair across from Grantaire’s desk. Grantaire felt obligated to sit too, and shoved his pen holder and pictures to the side, in order to properly see Enjolras’s face.

“So, you’re here to plan a wedding,” Grantaire tried for normalcy. He got pretty close.

“I am.” Enjolras responded, his voice clipped. “I honestly think I could plan this myself-,”

“Ouch,” murmured Grantaire.

“-but,” Enjolras narrowed his eyes at the interjection, “I’m pretty swamped right now, and could use some help.”

“That’s…,” the most forthright thing Grantaire had been told by a client, maybe ever, “…fine. So long as we get paid, we’re happy to be involved however much or little you need us.” Grantaire studied Enjolras’s face carefully, and if the man sensed any tension due to his proclamation, he didn’t show it.

“Great,” said Enjolras, his voice oozing formality.

Grantaire’s thin-lipped grin stretched between his cheeks. Enjolras might have thought he could throw a better wedding, but Grantaire was going to throw him the most decadent _fucking_ wedding he had ever seen - and rub it in his ugly, beautiful, beautiful face.

“I was thinking June,” Enjolras began, as if Grantaire didn’t already have a whole process that he was ruining.

“Wait just a minute, Sam, I’ve got some preliminary questions,” Grantaire scrambled to produce a profiling sheet he had every client fill out based on their tastes. He quickly scrawled _Enjolras Party_ at the top, as the man was staring him down with a quiet ferocity. This heavy gaze made Grantaire gulp as he struggled to fill out everything he knew about Enjolras’s plan for the wedding up until that point, which was nothing.

“Look - I don’t need to figure out what I want, here,” Enjolras said, leaning forward. “I’ve got the outline, and the preferences, already,” his voice seemed to soften as he watched Grantaire gaze at his questionnaire in despair. “I just need help with reaching out to catering companies and seating arrangements, and stuff.”

Grantaire appreciated this. He respected this, even, in a client. Someone who knew what they want, which Enjolras seemed to. The man was very self-possessed, and well-defined, which was unsurprisingly very attractive - just another facet of his charm. Grantaire complied easily, scrapping his client profile, and focusing his attention back on Enjolras, who had procured a folder labeled ‘The Wedding, Fool’ and set it on Grantaire’s desk.

Grantaire chuckled out a surprised laugh. He gestured to the cover with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, uh, Combeferre named it that, before I had the chance to intervene,” Enjolras said by way of explanation.

Grantaire smiled, softly. “And is that the blushing groom?”

Enjolras returned his smile, but it was more inward, perhaps thinking of his fiancé. “It is, indeed.”

Knowing the name of Enjolras’s future husband was like a shock of cold water to Grantaire’s system. Usually, couples came in together, it was a wonder why Enjolras had not. Or maybe it wasn’t, seeing as Combeferre knew his fiancé was planning on being an unbearable tyrant of the process - and wanted to stay as far from the situation as possible. Meeting Enjolras individually made the matrimony hard to picture, but now that the identity of his better half had been revealed, Grantaire knew it was time to get to work. This was no different than any normal planning job.

Enjolras only _seemed_ to be alone, available, his own entity, but he was not. He had a fiancé at home, whose name was Combeferre.

“And speak of the devil,” Enjolras laughed, quietly, his phone trilling in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he murmured, as he picked up the call. He turned away from Grantaire, but made no move to give himself more privacy, so Grantaire leaned back in his chair instead of busying himself with an imaginary task.

“Yeah, ‘Ferre, I’m there, now.” He listened to the reply, just a tinny voice was all Grantaire could hear filtering out. “A place called Eternal, I think.”

“Etreal,” Grantaire heard himself correcting.

“Uh,” Enjolras shot a glance up at Grantaire, his face blank, “Etreal,” he paused, for a question from Combeferre. “It’s downtown.” He then angled himself farther from Grantaire, and the latter finally decided he was being officially excluded from the conversation. He went back to scanning Bahorel’s pictures, but he still listened, secretly. “No, it’s fine, Comb, I’ve got this… You _can_ come, if you want. But you really don’t have to.” Enjolras listened. “Well, sure, I’ll probably be here for a bit. You can come by now.”

Grantaire risked a glance to Enjolras, who was looking down at his snow-laden boot. His curls were falling into his face, obscuring his view, but he made no move to brush them away. Grantaire found this really fascinating, for some inane reason, and couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Sure, I’ll give you the address. I’m leaving at four, though, I’ve got this big meeting with my boss that I can’t be late to.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows furrowed at this. He didn’t know why.

Then, after a clearly hurried response on Combeferre’s end, Enjolras grew very quiet. In a hoarse voice, he murmured, “what?”

Grantaire glanced at his computer screen, as Enjolras seemed to be sitting back up. His eyes accidentally caught a look at the clock on his computer.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Enjolras exclaimed, suddenly, and Grantaire could tell why. It was six o’clock.

Enjolras shot up from where he was sitting and rushed a goodbye into the phone, hanging up and then tucking it into his pocket. Grantaire stared up at him, eyes wide - even Eponine’s attention had been roused.

“I’m sorry, Grantaire, I’m gonna have to cut this short,” he said, sincerely, not bothering to explain the situation as it was clear Grantaire had already put it together. Grantaire rose, and extended his hand to shake, and Enjolras stared at it, blindly, before taking it and shaking it with vigor. Grantaire thought, in this state, it was probably best not to keep him.

“It’s not a problem, we can schedule this for another time.”

Enjolras thanked him and Eponine both, stammering out goodbyes nearly ten times, before bursting back out on the street, leaving only a memory of frenzy behind him. Grantaire felt a bit like he had been left with whiplash.

He turned to Eponine, who was gazing at him with her chin on her hand, an unreadable but knowing smile settling on her face.

“What?” Grantaire asked.

Eponine said nothing, just raised her hands a little, and turned back to her computer.

“What?” Grantaire asked, again.

 

 

They had met twice more, for increasingly longer periods of time, before Grantaire decided they would settle The Great Flower Debate once at for all.

Enjolras showed up to the nursery at noon, as they had agreed, but Grantaire was there waiting for him. The nursery was called La Macier, and Grantaire took all of his clients to it when they couldn’t decide on a centerpiece without a tangible representation of it. Enjolras’s problem was slightly different however, as were the entirety of problems he presented, seeing as he had a very set idea of what the flower arrangements would look like, and refused to acknowledge that lilies don’t belong in a wedding.

Enjolras stood before the most beautiful flower arrangement Grantaire had ever seen in his young life (the best Jehan had ever created, in his opinion) and flat out rejected it, countless times.

“Combeferre likes lilies!” He insisted. Grantaire couldn’t help but groan.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he said, shooing away the breathtaking arrangement reluctantly. “Lilies are for funerals, and roses are for weddings.”

“Roses.” Enjolras stated, as if this was the ludicrous thing he had ever heard. “Roses are for romantic comedies, and middle school dances.”

Grantaire made a face, and pushed his glasses up his nose. “What middle school is gonna pay for roses on every table? What middle school did you go to?”

“That’s not the point!” Enjolras bristled, throwing his hands in the air. When all Grantaire offered him was another indignant face, he heaved a great sigh, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Just. Show me one bouquet with lilies in it. Only one.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I will, but I won’t let you get it.”

“Fine,” Enjolras snapped, exasperatedly.

Grantaire called to Jehan to prepare one to the best of his ability on the spot, and Jehan disappeared into his greenhouse.

“They’re called arrangements, by the way. When they’re on a table.”

“Whatever,” came Enjolras’s snippy reply.

They waited in silence, Grantaire poking a look at the other arranged flowers Jehan had scattered around the office where he entertained _his_ clients. Grantaire thought an arrangement with purple and white peonies was particularly tasteful, but upon shooting a look at Enjolras (who was staring intently at his phone) figured the man wouldn’t recognize good taste in any measure, and kept it to himself.

Jehan reappeared with a flourish and a bundle of lilies with green foliage filling in the gaps, with sunny daffodils tucked neatly and tastefully beneath the rest. He picked at it, here and there, mentally making possible adjustments.

“It could use some work, but-.”

“I’ll take it.” Interrupted Enjolras, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“But! But, but - it’s _lilies_ ,” Grantaire spluttered, spinning his ring around his finger. “Enjolras, _please_.”

Grantaire made a movement toward him, and Enjolras stepped forward as well, pushing him back with his fingertips. He didn’t actually move him very far, just enough so Enjolras could turn around and reaffirm with Jehan - “I’ll take it.”

Jehan nodded, curtly, and turned back to write up a receipt. He glanced meaningfully at Grantaire, who was working up a pretty good rage.

“What the hell, Enjolras!” Grantaire exclaimed as soon as Jehan left, realizing immediately that his outburst was highly inappropriate for the situation. “Can you _listen_ to the advice I give, or not? I tell you that lilies won’t work - and you get lilies. What happens when I tell you not to wear a tie-dyed suit? Will you do that just to spite me?”

Enjolras turned back around to him, a surprisingly pleased expression settled across his face.

“Combeferre likes lilies,” he repeated, for the thousandth time. Grantaire made his infuriation evident.

“I get that! Combeferre is a big fan of lilies, and I am unbelievably happy for him,” he said, quickly, and turned oddly severe. “But you keep talking about what Combeferre likes and what he wants! What do you like, Enjolras? What do _you_ want?”

Enjolras seemed a little stunned, as though he hadn’t expected the question. “What does it matter?” He asked.

Now, _that_ was something Grantaire had never heard a client say.

Clients came to people like wedding planners and florists for the reason of getting exactly what they wanted. There was nothing more important to a customer besides their own self interest, and Grantaire hardly ever had to tease it out of them. He had a harder of time of getting them to be flexible. As of that moment, Enjolras was breaking records for most selfless fiancé.

“It matters,” was all Grantaire could come up with. “You’re half of the whole damn wedding.”

Enjolras’s amusement relighted his face. He let out an unexpected laugh. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

This was exceedingly cryptic, and Grantaire was about to counter it, when Jehan re-entered with a gust of wind following him, that smelled like daises, and a yellow legal pad. He assumed all of Enjolras’s attention, asking about the amount of tables he’d need, and the ratio of green plants to flowers, and Grantaire was content to slink into the background - interjecting only when Enjolras was about to make an ill-advised decision.

 

 

Grantaire sunk his teeth into his slice of re-heated pizza, and winced as it burned his tongue for the third time. He sucked in air quickly, but didn’t bother waiting for the pizza to cool off before he continued eating it. It was arguably one of the more delicious vicious cycles in Grantaire’s life.

Grantaire flipped the page of his magazine, another one of those wedding dress catalogues that spewed meaningless do’s and don’t’s of spring wedding fashion, for over-excitable and eager to please brides, who were willing to pay twice the normal amount for a wedding dress if a magazine told them to. Which was all of them. Grantaire scoffed when he got to the page about strapless dresses (because there’s always a page about strapless dresses) and he sent a prayer to all of the poor, unsuspecting brides who would spend their wedding day ceaselessly pulling up their dress.

He took another bite of pizza, and it burned his tongue again.

Suddenly, his computer pinged, from where he had left it open on his gmail. He had been scouring Bahorel’s wedding pictures again, this time to find a picture to send to the framers. He had emailed Eponine a few of them, and she would sullenly reply that none of them were any good (her roommate was Bahorel’s second wife, after all). Grantaire figured she had finally decided on the perfect few expletives she’d use to describe Bahorel’s oafishness, until he got to his computer and saw who the email was from.

It was from an email he didn’t have, but it wasn’t very hard to figure out who it might be. The name “enjolras.acadian@gmail.com” with the subject title: ISSUE.

All the email said was: The baker in charge of the wedding cake won’t return my phone calls.

Grantaire rolled his eyes, and stuffed the rest of the pizza in his mouth, tapping out a quick reassurance that he would handle it.

Enjolras’s reply came almost immediately afterward, as he was no doubt perched over his computer.  _Okay, but I’m going to meet with them on Monday, so you have to get in touch with them by then. What are you doing right now?_

Grantaire squinted at the screen. The last question seemed _almost_ like a genuine interest in his whereabouts, but he could tell what Enjolras was really getting at.

“I said…I’ll…handle it,” Grantaire said, aloud, as he hastily typed it in. This time Enjolras’s email took a bit longer, and Grantaire almost suspected he had relented, but there was no such thing.

_I still think I should be able to communicate with the bakery if I needed to. If I can’t trust them to be reliable with me, regardless of the wedding planner, I have no reason to use them._

Grantaire sighed. Enjolras could sound really pigheaded when he wasn’t speaking in person. Of course, when he was speaking in person it didn’t matter what he was saying - as he said everything he felt with such great conviction there’s really nothing an onlooker can do but agree. When it was over email, however, Grantaire found it less difficult to argue. He took advantage of this.

The conversation that night went on for an hour or so, the topic straying from wedding planning altogether, and closer to the muddy waters of when to grant someone the benefit of the doubt, and when to save yourself the trouble. Grantaire ended up talking himself in a circle, and though Enjolras didn’t necessarily win (Grantaire would never admit that) he never conceded the point either.

What he _did_ do was let Grantaire call the baker the next day, and schedule a cake tasting for two months in advance.

After that, communication flowed regularly between them. At the sight of any minor inconvenience, Enjolras was in Grantaire’s inbox, essentially asking for his help but never actually asking for it. Grantaire was happy to oblige, glad that his opinion was being given more weight and importance in Enjolras’s decision-making process.

Sometimes at night, when Grantaire was tired of editing pictures, or looking at the same four, equally unusable, wedding venues, they would talk about bigger picture stuff. They would always begin with something wedding-related, like whether or not to put disposable cameras on the tables or how old the flower girl should be, and someone would slide in a non-sequitur that would send the conversation veering off track, and it would take hours to right itself again.

Sometimes Grantaire would smile to himself, late at night, when he made an especially good argument, or shared a thought that had been on his mind for some time, and Enjolras would be right there not five minutes later with a response similarly well thought out. No one ever bothered to have conversations with Grantaire like this, either because they weren’t interested in the subject, or just weren’t interested in what he had to say about it.

Other times, Grantaire imagined Enjolras emailing him back at midnight, with Combeferre in the bed beside him, telling him to turn the computer off. This made Grantaire feel very cold and odd, and he would say goodnight quickly.

 

 

It was only Wednesday, but it was a Wednesday in April, the most infuriating of all months, and Grantaire felt like he was dangling between extremes. He did not feel stressed or overworked, but he didn’t feel confident in his work, or the quality of it. He didn’t feel confident in anything, like he was toeing a line. He felt like he was walking on a tight rope, and that he had been doing so for a long time, but felt nowhere near to the end.

Mostly, Grantaire needed to get out of the office.

Etreal was decked out in white furniture. It had white desks and walls and computers and chairs, and the entire kitchen was white and polished. The color was swimming in Grantaire’s eyes, and he felt like every time he looked at something bright white and blinding he grew a splitting headache in his ears, that he couldn’t quite shake. The inside of Etreal was white, and the outside world was grey, and all he wanted to do was curl up in his sofa in his apartment, where nothing was white or grey or hard to understand.

Grantaire’s computer pinged with an incoming message, and he found that Enjolras wanted to schedule an impromptu meeting, because he had apparently encountered some complication with the bridesmaid dresses. Grantaire didn’t feel like dealing with it, or dealing with anything, but he desperately needed to get some fresh air, so he offered that they meet at a coffee shop down the street. Enjolras said yes.

When Grantaire announced that he was going, Eponine just narrowed her eyes at him.

“You don’t do meetings in coffee shops,” she said, slowly.

“Now I do,” Grantaire said, defensively.

“Uh-huh,” was Eponine’s reply.

Grantaire left anyway, pulling his umbrella out and over his head, to shield himself from the bombardment of rain. Eponine wasn’t wrong - he had never taken a meeting with a client that wasn’t either in the office or the nursery. That being said, he had done a lot of things with Enjolras that he had never done with any other client. Try as he might to forget it all, Eponine’s skepticism was well-deserved.

Grantaire ordered himself a coffee and sat down in a cushy chair, and just sat there, twisting his ring. He considered grabbing a book from a broken-down bookcase in the corner, or busying himself with his phone, but he quickly fell into a trance-like state, staring at the floor and just sitting. He let his mind turn to white noise.

“…rantaire?” came a voice, and Grantaire looked quickly up, but the steam from his coffee had fogged up his glasses, obscuring his vision. He began to blush wildly as Enjolras chuckled at him, but before he even managed to greet him, Enjolras had plucked Grantaire’s glasses from his nose and was cleaning them on the front of his own shirt.

Grantaire just watched it happen, any words he could’ve said died in his throat. Enjolras admired his handiwork, and gingerly handed them back to Grantaire without a word. Grantaire slid the glasses back on his face, pretending the accidental brush of his fingers against Enjolras’s freezing hands never took place. He stored the fact that Enjolras had bad circulation in the back of his head, for no reason.

Enjolras suddenly looked very tired, and pulled off his jacket, throwing himself into a nearby chair, that he dragged over to face Grantaire’s. He threw his head back, and rested it against the soft material, and shut his eyes. Grantaire just stared at him, rarely ever seeing Enjolras in a state where he wasn’t yelling or arguing or being stubborn. It was a shock in itself that Enjolras wasn’t _doing_ anything.

Grantaire’s eyes traced the line of his throat, followed the path of a raindrop that fell from a curl of his hair, and where it trickled down his neck, and slipped beneath the collar of his shirt. Grantaire gulped, his mouth suddenly very dry, and the movement of him grabbing his cup of coffee and taking a desperate gulp caused Enjolras to open his eyes again.

“Sorry,” he said, and Grantaire could hardly manage a shaky grin. “I just really needed to get out of the office.”

Grantaire’s nod practically shook his skull loose. “I know what you mean.”

The corner of Enjolras’s mouth turned up, and revealed a few pearl-like teeth. Enjolras smirked often, but this one in particular was…different, to say the least. _Downright filthy_ , to say the most.

“How would you know?” Enjolras asked, sliding a finger beneath the collar of his button down, and tugging a little to give him some room to breathe. “You work in a goddamn IKEA. It’s like a mix between one of those ‘modern homes’ from an L.L. Bean catalogue, and a doctor’s waiting room.”

“You just named, like, the three most depressing places on Earth,” Grantaire retorted, “you’ve proved my point for me.”

Enjolras nodded, thoughtfully. Grantaire liked him much more when he was exhausted, he seemed less likely to challenge him.

When Enjolras didn’t seem like he was about to continue, Grantaire looked down at the hem of his sweater, before glancing back up for a split second. “And where do you work?” He asked. He tried to make the question sound as nonchalant as possible, and not at all like something he actively wondered about whenever Enjolras would show up at Etreal in a suit and tie, apologizing because he hadn’t had a chance to change out of work clothes.

“The Acadian offices, uptown,” Enjolras said, without hesitation. He leaned his elbow on the arm rest, and touched his fingertips to his face as he closed his eyes again. “Corporate America, what can I say? I work on floor forty seven, and I’ve got a whole office to myself, and I hate it.”

Grantaire was silent, just watching him.

“My boss is a power-hungry micromanager, and has been working for a promotion for twelve years. He tells me that when he becomes CEO, I can have his corner office. I hate that, too, unbelievably more so. I want to tell him that in twelve years I’d rather be in a casket on the bottom of the sea than in that corner office.”

Grantaire snorted, which made Enjolras blink his eyes open in surprise.

“Right? It’s reasonable, too. Combeferre just thinks it’s depressing.”

The mention of Combeferre made Grantaire’s shoulders tense, as he remembered the point of the meeting. It was not to listen to Enjolras talk about personal details that had nothing to do with wedding planning, and it was not to sip coffee and listen to the rain on the glass windows until the work day was over.

Grantaire tried his best not to sound pointed as he muttered, “I hate the city sometimes. Ever consider getting married in Venice?”

This, now, brought Enjolras back to the matter at hand as well. He glanced out through the window at the rain coming down, and ran a hand through his hair. “Honestly, I never considered getting married at all.”

This made Grantaire’s insides twist. “Until now, you mean.”  _Until you met Combeferre, and you finally did. He made you want to get married, because you want to marry_ him _, and not…_ “Until now,” he said, again. 

Enjolras just kind of looked at him. “Yeah, I guess I’m considering it.”

Grantaire shook his head, sort of an errant movement to acknowledge Enjolras’s joke. Enjolras had no idea what this meaningless teasing was doing to Grantaire.

And it didn’t matter.

They stayed in the coffee shop for three more hours, and Enjolras met the coffee shop owner (Bahorel’s fourth partner, Bossuet) until Enjolras got a call from his boss saying something very urgent and important had happened, and he needed to be back at the office Right That Second, and, where had he even gone in the first place? Enjolras said his goodbyes, and disappeared back into the rain. Grantaire only stayed in the coffee shop for fifteen minutes more, talking to Bossuet about things that he didn’t pay attention to, and pulled on his jacket and followed where Enjolras had left, but turned the other direction to head back to Etreal.

It wasn’t until he was home that night, setting a timer for the pasta he was cooking, that he realized neither of them even mentioned the bridesmaid dresses.

 


	2. May

“Oh!” Grantaire cried, by way of greeting to Eponine. “Isn’t May just a sight for sore eyes? The sun has reappeared, and the people are out and about once again! We still have a few weeks until all of our shotgun, spring fever couples come in with last minute marriage plans, and everything is good!” He hugged Eponine tightly around the neck. “Everything is lovely!”

“If you don’t get the fuck-,” Eponine grumbled, muffled by Grantaire’s jean jacket. She managed to wrestle him off of her and fussed with her hair for effect. “You’re acting crazy because you get to hang out with Enjolras all day.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Could be, maybe, I don’t know. Maybe I’m just really excited about cake tasting, Eponine, ever thought about that?”

Eponine smirked, “is cake a euphemism for something?”

Grantaire scoffed. “You’re disgusting.” He turned away from her, and back toward his desk where he had the itinerary laid out on his desk. He scanned it one more time, knowing it practically by heart, and knowing it was without flaws. “ _And_ you’re sad that I get to hang out with pretty boys, and Cosette is still out of town.”

“Cosette has nothing to do with this,” Eponine said, hurriedly, her cheeks turning crimson. “I couldn’t care less about Cosette, thanks.”

Grantaire beamed at her. “Of course not.”

Eponine’s eyes narrowed, “at least _I’m_ not the one with a schoolboy crush on a-,” the chime of the door signaled that they had company.

They both turned to see Enjolras in the doorway, wearing a very soft, worn flannel. He held his hand up, silently, as they both gauged whether or not he had heard any of the passing conversation between them. When he showed no signs of recognition, Grantaire finally stopped holding his breath, and scooped his itinerary into his arms.

“I’m ready if you are,” he said, shaking the papers in his hand slightly. Enjolras nodded, curtly, and let himself out again, holding the door open for Grantaire to follow. He shot one last look at Eponine. “And goodbye to _you_ , Bitter.”

She flipped him off.

 

“It’s a _nice venue_ , Enjolras,” Grantaire groaned. He had forgotten how impossible Enjolras could be when he was functioning at full capacity.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Enjolras insisted, and continued stalking back to his car. “That’s the most depressing church I’ve ever been in, and I was raised Roman Catholic. There are no windows.”

“You’re kidding,” Grantaire breathed, reaching the passenger’s seat door and opening it for himself.

“No, I’m not,” Enjolras said, turning the key in the ignition immediately. “It had like three windows in the whole thing, and they were each the size of a shoe.”

“No, about the Roman Catholic thing.”

Enjolras just glanced at him. “Huh? No, that’s true.”

“So, maybe, forget churches,” Grantaire scanned his list of venues as Enjolras backed them out of the church parking lot. He crossed off the three other churches on the list, that made this one look like the Louvre Pyramid. Enjolras watched him do this out of the corner of his eye.

“Or…I mean, it can be in a church,” he said, softly. “It can even be in that one.”

Grantaire looked back up at him. “But you just said-.”

“I know.” Enjolras said, staring purposefully at the road ahead of him. “It doesn’t matter, just a…stupid prejudice.”

“You keep saying it doesn’t matter, but it does.”

“Why would it matter?” Enjolras said, and looked back over to Grantaire, where he gaped at him.

“You keep saying that, too! It _does_ matter!”

“What’s the next venue?” Enjolras asked, quickly.

“Enjolras! It matters!”

“I don’t understand why you’re saying that, so just _drop it already_!” Enjolras fired back, instantly.

The car got very quiet.

Enjolras sighed.

Grantaire just furrowed his eyebrows, and looked out at the road, too.

 

The next venue was sort of a garden, but it had a larger area, less stocked with foliage, where the ceremony could take place. It was on the estate of a great mansion, but the mansion was historic and couldn’t be entered for the party, so it was basically just the garden.

“Outdoor weddings are tricky,” Grantaire murmured, touching a nearby petal of a flower he didn’t recognize.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, his voice practically pained, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why you take such high stock in my decisions, but it doesn’t matter, I shouldn’t have snapped.” Enjolras’s gaze was fixed on the side of Grantaire’s head, and he didn’t want to meet it.

“I’m not…,” Grantaire could tell he was being petulant. “Outdoor weddings are tricky.” He said, again.

Enjolras sighed.

“It could rain,” Grantaire shrugged.

“It might not.” Enjolras sounded tired.

“But it could,” Grantaire reinforced. “And if it did, you wouldn’t even have the house to go inside of, you’d just have to stay outside and pout about it.”

“I can’t help but feel like you’re talking about me, and not the general ‘you’.”

Grantaire couldn’t help the smile that tugged on his lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” Enjolras’s voice was mirthful, even though Grantaire had turned so he couldn’t see the other man’s face. “So, the image of me, rain soaked, and pouting like a child on this grand estate wasn’t immediately conjured to mind?”

Grantaire allowed himself a chuckle.

“I’m shocked you think so highly of me as to not assume that would be my immediate reaction.” Enjolras’s voice was plying, and genuine. He wanted to make Grantaire laugh. He wanted Grantaire’s help, and he wanted him to be there, so he was trying. This was only the start of the day, after all.

“I see you more…cowering under folding chairs to keep your hair from getting wet,” Grantaire turned around. “You’ll get out of the situation alive, and dry, but without your dignity. I, on the other hand, will be the one pouting.”

Enjolras smiled now, quietly but still definitely smiling. “I look forward to it.”

Grantaire felt his chest tighten. “Alright, I won’t make you have any input anymore. You can have your dark church, and your lilies, and your tie-dyed suit, and I’ll just watch it all happen with awe and dismay.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, his smile widening.

 

The following three venues were all about as successful as the first two. They were either too small or too expensive or ugly or inconvenient. They all didn’t work for a multitude of reasons (none of which was helped by Enjolras being the pickiest person on the planet) and Grantaire decided to call it a day without visiting the last venue. He elected, instead, for the cake tasting which had been too long deferred.

They arrived at the bakery, and Marius greeted them jovially at the door.

“Hey, guys!” He said, and made a sweeping gesture with his arm to welcome them inside. “I’ve got a whole table set up, and me and the gang will leave you with some privacy, as to provide maximum impartiality.” He handed them little cards with the names of each cake and a box next to the name. “Just check off the ones you like, and leave the ones you hate, blank.”

“Can do,” replied Enjolras, already staring down the red velvet cake. They had been venue-hopping through lunch, and Grantaire felt his own stomach grumble at the sight of it as well. Marius sensed their attention grow exceedingly scarce, and backed into the kitchen, withdrawing himself from the path between them and the cakes.

Enjolras immediately situated himself on the left side of the banquet table that the cakes were situated on, and Grantaire sat himself down across from him. The first cake slice on their card was a chocolate raspberry mousse cake, and Enjolras found it and dropped it in front of them. He took one bite and crinkled up his nose, as Grantaire made a noise of shock, and took an even larger second bite.

“Right off the bat, turns out you’re even more wrong about cake than you are about flowers,” Grantaire shook his head disapprovingly.

“How can you eat that?” Enjolras asked, shaking his head, and smacking his mouth twice as if to get rid of the taste. “It’s like eating dirt. But only it’s more bitter.”

Grantaire just shook his head, somberly. “You’re the most difficult person I know.”

Enjolras stuck his chin out. “I’m skipping to red velvet cake now, as a consolation.” He took several large bites and sighed, contentedly.

Grantaire didn’t touch it. “I don’t like cream cheese frosting.”

“Neither does Combeferre,” Enjolras said, mouth full. “We won’t have it, but it’s a personal favorite.”

Grantaire bit down on his instinct to take Enjolras’s head in his hands and shake him until he made a choice for himself.

They tried a lemon honey cake next, and although it made Grantaire’s head hurt with the sweetness, they both put it down as a ‘maybe’. Then there was the pineapple flambé, which, to Marius’s credit, was relatively well done, but not a winner. Then it was the vanilla cake with chocolate frosting, the chocolate cake with vanilla frosting, a strawberry cake with unrecognizable pearls of…something in the frosting, but was not entirely unpleasant.

There was a lavender and vanilla cake, which brought tears of joy to Grantaire’s eyes, and he finished it even though he knew he shouldn’t, but Enjolras insisted that the fact that it had been made with a flower would be too exotic for the extended family. Grantaire wasn’t quite sure why this disqualified it, but it went unmarked.

Finally, they decided on the lemon and honey cake, but they would modify the recipe so that it wasn’t nearly as sweet, and it was a bit less dense, as it would be a summer reception, and filling cakes never made people feeling like getting up and dancing. Grantaire counted this as a success as they left the bakery, and they waved goodbye to Marius who was staring at the empty dish where the lavender cake had been - the plate all but licked clean.

 

“Alright,” Grantaire laughed, after Enjolras berated him for eating more cake then he did actually judging of the cake, and stopped on the sidewalk, pulling out his itinerary. “We’ve just got one last thing.”

“What’s that?” Enjolras asked, his smile still wide across his face.

“Suit shopping,” Grantaire said, and he resisted the urge to cartoonishly gulp. He wasn’t totally sure if he’d be able to control himself watching Enjolras try on suit after well-fitted suit, close enough to touch, but still much too far away.

However, his face still fell when Enjolras twisted his mouth to the side. “I think we’d need Combeferre for that, don’t you?”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. He felt a bit like an idiot. “I do. Yeah. Yes, yeah, I do think that, you’re right.”

“I’m sure I already have a suit in the recesses of my closet, I’ll be fine.” Enjolras began to walk again, back toward his car where they had parked down the street. “But you should go with Combeferre, he definitely does not.”

Grantaire bunched up his forehead, but struggled to catch up with Enjolras. “Y’know, I haven’t actually met the guy, yet.”

Enjolras looked genuinely shocked. “You haven’t? I thought he came by that one time.”

“Mmmm,” Grantaire tilted his head. “Not with you, no. Or any time else, ever.”

“Huh.” Enjolras punctuated. “Well.”

“I don’t know how to get in touch with him,” Grantaire continued, as if he actually wanted to.

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll connect the two of you.”

Grantaire frowned a little. He had never actually prepared himself for having to meet Combeferre. It was going to happen sooner or later - after all, the wedding planners do attend the wedding - but that was in the abstract. Now, they were a month away, and Combeferre still didn’t have a tuxedo, and they didn’t have a venue.

They didn’t have a venue, Combeferre didn’t have a tuxedo, Enjolras still wasn’t married, and Grantaire had no idea what he was going to do when Enjolras was.

 

 

“Like…am I being a shit wedding planner on purpose?” Grantaire slurred, his beer swinging precariously in his hand.

Eponine caught it from his lax grip and set it back down on the sticky table at which they were situated.

“Do I normally do this?” Grantaire asked her, almost an accusation. “Do I get down to one month before a wedding and, like, _nothing_ has been decided, still?”

“I don’t know, ‘Taire,” Eponine said, quietly. “Do you?”

“I don’t think he does,” Marius chimed in. “You usually come in to test cakes with the couple, like, two, three months in advance.” Grantaire shot him a pitiful look. “Which I always think is overkill, and was glad to see you’re now doing things at a normal schedule.”

“Yeah, maybe Enjolras is doing you good,” Jehan said, pleasantly.

Grantaire scoffed. “Hardly.” He said, miserably. “I’m definitely tanking his wedding on purpose.”

“Oh, honey,” Cosette cooed, lovingly. She sat on the other side of Eponine, and reached over her to pat Grantaire on the shoulder. “Do you really think that’s true?”

“I haven’t even met the guy he’s marrying,” Grantaire admitted.

The table _ooh_ ed, audibly.

“That’s probably not…,” Jehan struggled for wording, “the best.”

“Maybe you should…eventually,” Bossuet rubbed the back of his neck. “That seems imperative to planning a wedding.”

“Yeah, it’s his wedding, too,” Cosette agreed, softly.

“ _I know_ ,” Grantaire stressed, itching at his ring. “I _know_ , I promise you that I know that already. I’m going about this in the worst way imaginable.” Grantaire studied the table, mournfully. “I’d be better off just giving the job to you, Eponine. They’re willing to pay well. It’s a really good opportunity.”

“No way,” Eponine said, forcefully but not brusquely. “You’re just about the only person who could reason with Enjolras.”

“This is true,” Marius confirmed. “He was about ready to sack me before you talked him off the ledge.”

“Plus, I saw you two in the coffee shop,” Bossuet said, and Grantaire couldn’t look at him. He felt Eponine boring holes into the side of his head.

“What happened in the coffee shop, Bossuet?” Eponine asked, quietly.

“Nothing, of course.” Bossuet said, immediately. “Enjolras just looked really…serene, I guess. Basically, nothing like a guy ready to be married in two months.”

Grantaire continued to stare down at the grain of the table.

“He changed the flower order.” Jehan suddenly added.

Grantaire’s head shot up, and everyone got very quiet.

“He…what?” Eponine asked, her voice incredulous.

“Only for one table,” Jehan explained. “For table, like, nine or something, like, oddly specific.”

“Nine’s where I sit,” Grantaire practically whispered.

“Figures,” Jehan chuckled nervously at Grantaire’s grave expression. “He didn’t change much in the arrangement, just went from lilies to peonies.”

“Only for that one table?” Cosette asked, voice laden with confusion.

Jehan replied, without tearing his eyes from Grantaire’s. “Uhh…yeah. Didn’t explain why, either.”

“That’s weird,” said Bahorel.

“Shut up, Bahorel,” said everyone else.

 

 

Grantaire didn’t know what time it was. He also definitely didn’t _want_ to know what time it was.

He had fallen asleep at his desk twice since Eponine left. His eyes ached from staying open. He twisted his ring around his finger, then yawned so wide that his jaw popped, which only woke him up momentarily, until his eyes glazed over again. He’d been staring at the same picture of a couple, for their save-the-date card, for almost ten minutes, without so much as touching the mouse. Their expressions were mock joyful, and their eyes were dead. The smile cemented on her face was phony and he looked like someone whose hands would be permanently sweaty. Grantaire felt sorry for them, and then he felt sorry for himself, and then he felt sorry for them again.

He clicked to the next picture, which was a “candid” of him kissing her on the cheek. This was less stiff, at least, and the smile on her face seemed maybe halfway to genuine. Grantaire didn’t look forward to meeting them, or shaking the clammy hand of the groom-to-be. He emailed her back the “candid” with a short message, _this is the one! I’ll be seeing you lovebirds soon. xx_

Grantaire almost vomited at his own damn self.

And then he fell asleep again.

He was woken up by the bustle of jingling at the door, and blinked, blearily, toward the sound.

“Rise and shine!” Came a voice that he was expected to be Eponine’s, but was a shock when it wasn’t. “I brought Chinese food.”

“I love you,” he said, to the stranger. He realized he couldn’t see anything because his glasses had fallen from his nose, so he slipped them back on. “I mean-,” he stammered, when he saw who it was. “I don’t… I mean… Thanks for the Chinese food.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be here,” Enjolras said, brushing off Grantaire’s rambling, and setting the paper bag in his arms onto the table in the kitchen.

“I can’t imagine why I would be,” Grantaire said, standing apprehensively. He was more than ready to accept Chinese food from a stranger, but Chinese food from Enjolras was a different story. There was no reason why Enjolras should be bring him food at, Grantaire checked his watch, eleven o’clock? He could’ve sworn it was later than that.

“I can,” Enjolras said, pulling a plastic container of soup from the bag, and the irresistible smell of it flooded the room. “Maybe because you work late every night?”

“I do not,” Grantaire said, just on instinct, as all he could focus on was the container of chicken and rice that followed the soup.

Enjolras followed his gaze, and pulled the container up to his chest. “Admit that I’m right or you get no Chinese food.”

“You monster,” Grantaire growled. Enjolras just smiled and shook the container a little to emphasize his point. “Do I have to admit that you’re right all the time? Or just about this one thing about me working late.”

Enjolras considered this. “It _was_ just about you working late-.”

“Fine,” Grantaire snapped, stepping forward and reaching for the food.

Enjolras withdrew it further from his reach. “ - but, the price just went up. Say that I’m right all the time.”

“You’re right all the time,” Grantaire said, without hesitation.

Enjolras threw his head back a little and laughed. If Grantaire wasn’t so hungry, he would’ve been distracted by it. (He was still a little distracted by it.)

“Now tell me I’m a genius, who knows everything about wedding planning,” Enjolras continued, keeping the container from arms reach, while pulling more boxes from his bag. Grantaire itched to grab the food from his hands… Grantaire itched to grab the skin on Enjolras’s face and pull him close.

Enjolras was wearing a deep maroon henley, the first two buttons undone and falling open to reveal delicate skin. Grantaire knew Enjolras smelled good, he was practically sure of it. He knew he could get a fistful of Enjolras’s shirt, and pull as hard as he could, and bring the tantalizing skin of Enjolras’s neck up to his face - up to his _teeth_ \- and make himself as close as possible. He knew he could, and he wanted to. So, _so_ badly.

“Quit staring at me like that,” Enjolras said, and for a minute Grantaire felt his stomach drop. “You’re not gonna get out of this one by giving me some face. Call me a genius or you can watch me eat all this food myself.”

“You’re a genius,” Grantaire heard himself say, his voice utterly wrecked.

“And…,” Enjolras prompted.

“And…,” Grantaire parroted.

“And I’m a genius who knows everything about wedding planning.”

“You’re a genius who knows everything about wed…,” Grantaire heard himself trail off. His voice was too breathy, and he could feel that his eyes were too wide. He couldn’t change it, though, he could only sense it. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, and blood rushed in his ears so he couldn’t hear whether or not he finished the sentence, though he probably didn’t.

“And you’re gonna tell me,” Enjolras said, opening the containers one by one and diverting Grantaire’s attention again, “that you’re gonna eat this food that I brought you, and then you’re gonna thank me, and then you’re gonna go home and actually get some sleep for once.”

“Um,” Grantaire said, “I’m gonna-.”

“No,” Enjolras laughed, “you don’t need to repeat all that. You just need to promise you will.”

“Sure,” Grantaire practically pleaded.

“Say it.”

Grantaire’s stomach flipped at the sound of Enjolras ordering him around. He was so tired, and so hungry, and he would do anything for Enjolras (he was sure of that) even if he wasn’t tired and hungry. He would do anything Enjolras asked, and anything Enjolras demanded.

“I promise I will,” he said, meaningfully.

Enjolras’s face fell slack after that, and his gaze suddenly flickered down Grantaire’s face. He only faltered like this for a second, before pulling a fork from the bag and dropping it into the pan of chicken and rice.

“Eat,” was all he said.

Grantaire did. He ate (and ate) until he had regained something close to humanity, and Enjolras’s proximity had awakened every nerve in his body, so he was considerably better than he had been before.

Grantaire watched as Enjolras finished off the last of the fried rice, and dropped his fork into the bag it had come from. Enjolras leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic chair, and stretched his long arms over his head, dropping his head back and stretching. He was tired too, it was obvious. It wore on his face, and it wore on his shoulders all the time. He scrubbed a hand down his face

This wasn’t a man who deserved to have his wedding ruined. Someone who would bring a friend - an employee, basically - Chinese food because they knew they would be working still, and starving, didn’t deserve to have that employee be purposefully contrary. Enjolras didn’t just deserve a decent wedding, he deserved the best one in the world. So that for one, perfect day he could forget about the Acadian Offices, and the city, and a Roman Catholic childhood, and just be present, and happy, and marrying the most perfect man in the world.

So, it wasn’t Grantaire. What did that matter?

 

 

There was one last venue on the bottom of the list that Grantaire hadn’t visited with Enjolras that day. It was a new one, he hadn’t seen it with any past clients either, it had come under new ownership and the person was renting out the space for nearly anything. It was clear that whoever had made the ad was unfamiliar to the world of overselling your product, and the venue might as well have been an abandoned parking lot out in New Paltz.

But, again, it was a venue Grantaire had never seen before and it was now only three weeks to the wedding, and he was desperate.

He didn’t feel like making it an event, and he might have needed some time alone when he wasn’t thoroughly going out of his mind, so he borrowed Eponine’s car and drove out to the site by himself. He drove down the highway into New Jersey, which he hadn’t done in years, and the long stretch of road that was, uncharacteristically, pretty empty was immensely soothing.

By the time he reached the venue, which was in North Bergen, he was pretty blissed out. He got out of the car, and was instantaneously met by a courteous valet driver who took his keys, and very politely didn’t sneer at Eponine’s hunk of junk car. He wandered up the stairs of the great building in front of him, and at the top, almost as zealous as the valet was a woman with big, curly hair and a bright smile.

“I’m Musichetta! Welcome to The Waterfront!” She said.

It took Grantaire about fifteen minutes to decide that this was the wedding venue. He stayed there to inspect for two more hours, of course, as leaving too excitedly would have been in bad form, and she might’ve driven the price up. As is, the price of renting the entire venue, the waterfront and the Great Hall, was still on the higher end of the price range that Enjolras had laid out for him.

Instead, he acted very discerning, running his fingers along dust-free pieces of furniture and pretending to find things he distasted. He said the waterfront was nice, but a little drafty. He commented on the size of the kitchen, which was bigger than many he had seen so far, but pretended that the cake was so luxurious that he was skeptical it would fit through the door.

By the end, Musichetta looked a little doubtful of the entire situation, and the surprise on her face when Grantaire offered to rent it for the wedding was evident. She had him sign the contract, and they agreed on three weeks, and Grantaire was off on his merry way.

Grantaire realized, as he strolled down the marvelous steps, feeling pretty proud of himself, that he had neglected to ask _anyone_ their opinion.

 

 

“There, there, my sweet,” said Bahorel, tenderly, patting Grantaire on the hand appeasingly. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”

“No, you’re right.” Grantaire said, sitting up from where he had thrown himself across Eponine’s lap. “It’s worse. I wish it was as _good_ as all that.”

Cosette shook her head, from where she was sitting on her and Eponine’s living room floor. “That’s not true, you’re not giving yourself enough credit. The wedding has really come together, ‘Taire, and you made that happen.”

Grantaire let out a pathetic sound, rubbing his ring finger. “I guess I’m not really talking about the wedding anymore.”

“If you’re talking about the venue, I think that if Enjolras was really all that broken up about it, he would’ve stormed the office by now,” Eponine said, and he felt her hand in his hair again. “You asked him if he trusted you, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but apparently things at work are chaos. He has no choice.”

“Good!” interjected Jehan. “He makes _bad choices_ , Grantaire. And you make good ones! He’s better off trusting you than he is trusting himself. He’ll love the venue, because you can do no wrong.”

“I can do plenty wrong, and I have,” Grantaire grumbled, but it was clear even to him that he was just being contrary.

“I’m tired of this, R,” said Bossuet, loudly. “No more self pity. It’s two weeks until the wedding. You have the venue, the flowers, the cake, the tuxedos, and everything else will be supplied by Musichetta. You’re fine, Grantaire, you’re in the clear. It’s gonna happen the way it happens, and you just have to accept that fact and move on. Enjolras might wake up in fifteen years and realize that he let the best opportunity of his life slip through his fingers. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you get paid.”

Grantaire’s eyes suddenly widened. “No.”

Bossuet tilted his head slightly. “Excuse me?” He asked.

“Fuck,” Grantaire practically hissed. “Shit. No.”

“Grantaire, _what_ is going on?” Cosette asked, rising to her knees.

Grantaire began to shake his head, furiously. “No, no. The tuxes.”

Eponine suddenly gasped. “Fuck,” she echoed.

Grantaire whipped around to her. “The tuxedos.”

“Oh my god,” Eponine murmured hoarsely, her hand over her mouth.

“What?” Bossuet demanded. “What the fuck, guys?”

Grantaire stood suddenly from where he had been tucked on the couch and stalked down the hallway, where he began to pace.

“The tuxedos,” he heard Eponine say. “He doesn’t have the tuxedos.”

 

 

Grantaire wore a silver band on his left hand.

He started wearing it a year and a half after his aunt had gotten him the job at Etreal. He never told anyone it was a wedding ring, or an engagement ring, but he wore it on his fourth finger, and it was silver. It looked the way it did for a reason.

The first year and a half of wedding planning had been a constant bombardment of ‘you’re a wedding planner and you’re not married! What _irony_!” and “this is my fourth marriage, son, I think I’d know a little bit more about romance than someone who’s never been married before’. And ‘you’re so romantic! And you’re unmarried…remind me to introduce you to my sister at the wedding!’. Some people didn’t trust him to plan their wedding at all, and took their business elsewhere in hopes of finding someone more ‘experienced’.

So, Grantaire bought himself the ring and all of a sudden the questions, and the judgements, and the matchmaking stopped. He was taken seriously. Sometimes, they even asked what he did for his own wedding. He’d describe his parent’s, or he’d describe a nightmare catastrophe, or he’d describe the most perfect wedding he could think of. In the end, they trusted him. All because he had a silver band on his finger that he had bought for twenty five bucks.

As Grantaire stood outside of the tuxedo shop, he twisted that band around his ring finger until the skin under it grew red and chaffed. He saw this and kept turning. His hands couldn’t stay still. He kept turning it and turning it; the sharp pinches now and again kept him awake, and kept him present. Every time a car would go by he’d give the ring a sharp turn. Every time a man seemed to be approaching him, he’d jam the ring harder down onto his finger.

He stood outside of the shop for fifteen minutes, and twisted the ring until the wrist on the hand doing the twisting ached like hell. Finally, he dropped his hand to his side. And that just happened to be when -

“Hi, you must be Grantaire,” came a voice.

Grantaire turned to his right, and found a tall, muscular man with a killer bone structure, eyeing him down.

“I’ve heard great things about you,” said Combeferre.

“And I, you,” said Grantaire, offering his hand. Combeferre’s massive hand practically covered his own. Grantaire wanted to shrink into the pavement.

Suddenly, someone appeared at Combeferre’s shoulder. A more fragile looking angel, about half the height of Combeferre, wearing a loose top and joggers popped out from behind Combeferre’s broad back. He was panting, as if he had just ran to catch up.

“Hi, there!” He exclaimed, and shot a very wide and familiar smile at Grantaire.

“Hi,” Grantaire murmured. “I’m sorry…you are…?”

The man’s eyebrows shot up, instantly. “Courfeyrac,” he said, as if that name were supposed to have some sort of meaning to him.

Grantaire nodded, slowly. “You must be the best man,” he assumed.

Courfeyrac’s face almost comically darkened. “What the _fuck_ did you just say to me?”

Combeferre’s face fell as well, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, looped a thick arm around Courfeyrac’s waist, a lifted him about an inch off the ground, pulling him backwards, before Courfeyrac had a chance to say anything at all. The smaller man was looking at Grantaire so menacingly, Grantaire doubted whether or not he had ever really known true fear until that moment.

“You absolute _IMBECILE_ -,” Courfeyrac began to holler, before Combeferre suddenly whirled him around, and set him down, his large back blocking Grantaire’s view of Courfeyrac entirely. Grantaire wasn’t sure when the last time he had been called an imbecile had been, but it hadn’t been recently. He couldn’t say if he’d ever been called that with true malice, but he certainly could now.

A lot of hushed whisperings were conspiring behind the wall that was Combeferre’s broad back, and Grantaire only picked up fragments from Courfeyrac’s end, who was worse at whispering than Combeferre. A lot of sharp consonants and ‘kill him’s were thrown around, and Grantaire wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a request. He felt something building in his blood, an apprehension, and a need to be in the inner circle.

He was in the dark and couldn’t stand it. He went back to twisting the ring on his finger but it did nothing to distract him. The pain only made him acutely more focused. Eventually, Courfeyrac’s murmurs were less excited, and Combeferre moved to lay an arm across Courfeyrac’s shoulders, an awfully intimate move between a groom and his best man. Grantaire felt like he was watching something he shouldn’t be.

“Hello again, idiot,” said Courfeyrac, when they turned around again,and Combeferre nudged him in the ribs. “Oof. I think you just accidentally hit me, _baby_.”

Accompanying the pet name, Courfeyrac looked very meaningfully over at Grantaire.

“Wait…,” Grantaire muttered.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Combeferre said, softly.

“I think so, too,” Courfeyrac said, not nearly as soft. He wore the smile of a hyena, and Grantaire felt no more safe than when Courfeyrac had been yelling at him.

“Um,” said Grantaire.

Combeferre took a step forward, standing intentionally between Courfeyrac and Grantaire, and looking soberly down at the latter.

“Grantaire,” he mused, “who _exactly_ do you think is getting married in two weeks?”

“Um,” said Grantaire, again.

“Choose wisely, my friend!” came Courfeyrac, shrill over Combeferre’s shoulder.

“You and Enjolras?” Grantaire quavered.

A shriek practically rang through the air.

Combeferre tore back around to Courfeyrac, and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Courf!” He commanded, “chill it the _fuck_ out!”

This miraculously seemed to work.

Courfeyrac fell silent, and then, with Combeferre having moved to the side, made eye contact with Grantaire. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he concluded.

“I…,” Grantaire swallowed, his mouth unbearably dry, “I have a profiling sheet.”

 

As it turned out, Enjolras was spot on with all of his decisions he had made for the couple. It was no wonder Courfeyrac and Combeferre had enlisted him to help them plan the wedding. He seemed to know them even better than they knew themselves. They answered Grantaire’s questions with hesitation, but they all inevitably lined up with everything Enjolras had told them in the process.

Courfeyrac liked summer weddings and citrus, and Combeferre liked lilies (of course) and despised cream cheese frosting. They both adored the waterfront idea, and upon the introduction of the venue, Combeferre moaned a sigh of relief with a hearty, “thank GOD it’s not one of those Gothic churches.”

Grantaire was impressed. He was shocked, but at the same time, he wasn’t. There wasn’t any reason for Enjolras _not_ to have known those things about his friends. Grantaire might not have been able to, but at the same time he was a much less observant person. He was much less patient, too. He was much less selfless than Enjolras. He wouldn’t have balanced an entire working schedule _and_ singlehandedly planned a wedding that wasn’t even his. Not all while dealing with an irritating wedding planner, which could hardly have helped.

And, just the other night, when all Grantaire could think of doing was dirty things with Enjolras’s mouth - Enjolras had still been doing the most.

By the end of the day, Courfeyrac had forgiven him, but Grantaire wasn’t even close to forgiving himself. He got beautiful tuxedos for both grooms (they insisted on trying them on separately, because seeing each other would be bad luck) but he could hardly count that as a win.

He felt like dirt. No, lower than dirt. He felt like an idiot, who had gone through the entire process thinking he could see clear as day, thinking he had some profound understanding of the situation, but instead he was still that asshole walking around with steam fogging up his glasses. Into his office had walked one of the kindest, smartest, most caring people he had ever met - and he didn’t hardly bother listening to what he had to say.

Grantaire’s job was not to define what ‘love’ meant. Not to anybody who asked him. Nor to anybody who walked in his doors pigeon-toed, asking for some sage advice from a kid who wears a fake wedding ring. No, Grantaire was not qualified to speculate on the definition of love, so he never did. But now he was suddenly on the other side of the desk, pleading with himself, asking the man with all the answers to tell him what to do, and how to feel. All Grantaire could give to himself was a shrug, and a helpless shake of his head, and that wasn’t enough.

 

Enjolras had been assigned to a project that required him at work whenever his eyes were open and his heart was beating.

Grantaire didn’t see him until the wedding.


	3. June

The wedding was a roaring success. And no one was surprised.

It didn’t rain. The sky was bright and sunny, and they had the ceremony on the water, and the reception in the evening on the patio, until the sun went down. As soon as the sun had set, Courfeyrac stood from where he was sat next to his new husband, and the sound of his fork against his china glass rang through the party. Combeferre’s parents looked up from where they were debating as to why the flowers on the table nine were different from the rest of them.

Jehan, who was hanging off to the side, looked to Courfeyrac, and made Renée, the flower girl, look up at him too. Musichetta turned to face the groom, and so did all of Courfeyrac’s brothers. Combeferre’s sister, who was feeding a forkful of cake to Marius, also somehow managed to tear her eyes away. The mumbling of the crowd dissipated until the only sound lingering was that of the glass, and the soft rush of water down the hill.

Grantaire heard this change in volume, and excused himself from the kitchen, where he had been supervising, stepping back out into the night.

“‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you directly without problems or pride: I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love. Except in this form in which I am not nor are you, so close that your hand upon my chest is mine, so close that your eyes close with my dreams.’ I always thought that was beautiful,” gushed Courfeyrac. The celebrating party clapped politely, and Courfeyrac’s mother wiped a tear from her cheek.

“I never thought I’d be marrying my true love,” Courfeyrac continued, and Combeferre gripped his hand, tightly. “And, trust me - it wasn’t easy.” The crowd laughed, knowingly. Grantaire watched as Courfeyrac’s friends nodded at one another, and Combeferre leaned his hand against his husband’s arm. “I’ve had some pitfalls. But it was worth it.” He gazed down at Combeferre’s beaming face. “Dear God, was it worth it.”

Combeferre rose to meet him, and took his husband’s face in his hands, and kissed him. The party clapped and cheered and whooped, and Grantaire smiled to himself. He smiled in the very darkest part of the night, where no one could see his smile, even though his face was the brightest it had been in months. He turned, and went back into the kitchen, just as Enjolras got up to make his best man’s toast. 

The wedding finally wound to a close at one in the morning. Combeferre took the most persuading to leave, but his husband was such an otherworldly level of drunk that he was forced to drive the honeymoon car home before Courfeyrac had the bright idea to get himself killed. Grantaire watched as they left, the sound of tin cans filtering away into the distance, and he made the lonely trudge up the side of the hill, and around to the back patio. 

The aftermath of a wedding was always eerily the best part. It’s still full of the life and spirit of so many people - people at their happiest. The sounds of cheering and laughter was still heavy in the air, but at the same time, it’s the emptiest that the venue has ever been. Devoid of life, simply because there had, moments ago, been a surplus of it. Grantaire knew he had to finish talking payment with Musichetta and the chef and the rest of the kitchen staff, but he told himself that just for a minute, he’d take a seat.

He chose one at table nine. He looked at the arrangement in front of him. The powder colored peonies looked starkly white in the darkness, and the string of lights around the patio threw shadows this way and that across the table. He tooled with disposable camera off to his right, and found that it had room for five more shots, and took one of the flowers, just as they were. ‘Why am I here?’ he thought of captioning it. He thought, when he’d get the pictures developed, that he might keep that one. 

“I’m glad you like them.”

Grantaire lifted his head, slowly, though the voice had come from behind him. 

“I got them for you, of course.”

Grantaire swallowed, the sound resonating in his ears. 

“You hardly sat there all night. I was worried that the gesture had been lost on you.”

“I’m sitting here, now,” Grantaire hardly choked out.

“Yes, you are,” Enjolras affirmed. 

Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to turn and look at him, so it was a good thing Enjolras walked around. 

Boy, was he hard to look at. He had loosened his tie just an inch, so it hung teasingly around his neck. His hair was mussed from a long night of hugging and dancing, and everything that had looked so put together in the beginning, was now all falling apart at once. The fairy lights kissed his skin in an ethereal glow, and shadows hung about him, concealing one half of him in darkness. He had his hands tucked into his pockets

“I’m guessing Combeferre told you…what I thought,” Grantaire cleared his throat. He figured that if this was the moment that life had presented to him, there was really no more time to waste. 

“I think so,” Enjolras said, delicately. 

“I guess it’s unfair to ask why you didn’t…tell me,” Grantaire’s gaze faltered as he began to spoke, and focused instead, on his hands.

Enjolras rocked back on his heels, thoughtfully. “I thought it was obvious.”

“Why would it be obvious?” Grantaire asked, unable to mask the fatigue in his voice.

Enjolras withdrew his hands from his pockets, then. “For one thing, I was never wearing a ring.”

“Fuck.”

Enjolras shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“ _Fuck_ .”

Enjolras chuckled now. “It was just an oversight, it’s fine.”

“It’s  _so obvious_ .”

Enjolras continued to laugh. It was such a relieving sound that Grantaire couldn’t help but join him after a few moments. Grantaire rubbed the pads of his fingers into his eyes in circles. His laughter felt almost like panic bubbling out of his chest in a few breathy gasps. It was fine - it really was. Enjolras said so, himself. 

Grantaire opened his eyes again to find that Enjolras had stopped laughing. Instead, Enjolras was searching Grantaire’s face. He stared at him intently. His gaze was impossible to avoid, so Grantaire just met it, instead. All humor in Enjolras’s face was lost, and for fleeting moment Grantaire was worried that he had found some way to ruin things again. He wouldn’t be surprised. 

“Grantaire, come here.”

He felt the panic rise in his chest again, even though it had just been released. But he did as he was told. Grantaire stood from the chair that he had coaxed Enjolras into ordering from the furniture rental, and walked around the table that Enjolras had decided on renting himself, and he stood before Enjolras, who was wearing that well-fitting suit he promised he’d in the recesses of his closet - and who had never looked better.

“All that time…when you thought I was getting married,” Enjolras began, and Grantaire realized this was the lead up to something he would be helpless against. “All that time - what did you think of me?”

Grantaire was too close to Enjolras to consider this clearly. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”

“Okay, I’ll be more specific.”

“Okay.”

“What did you think I was doing, when I took off your glasses and cleaned them on my shirt?”

This was incredibly specific, but then again, it was Enjolras, so Grantaire could hardly be surprised he kept his word. “I…thought you were being nice.”

“Uh-huh,” Enjolras breathed, and took a step closer. 

There was no space for air between them, but that didn’t matter because there was no air in Grantaire’s lungs either.

“And what…,” Enjolras purred, and with velvety fingers, slid Grantaire’s glasses from his nose again, “…do you think I’m doing now?”

“Um,” Grantaire said. 

And Enjolras kissed him. 

 

Now, Grantaire had only worked at Etreal for about five or six years. But he had spent five years trying to cultivate the most perfect moment, and then duplicate it over and over again. And sometimes, he got close to being successful. But he had one serious detriment; he had never had a moment of that much sensation, of total bliss, to ever try to recreate it. That was, until Enjolras kissed him, and he kissed Enjolras back.

 

Enjolras’s lips were soft, softer than silk and warmer than coffee. His left hand came up to rest on Grantaire’s face, cold as ever, and his right hand found the back of his neck. He felt his glasses in Enjolras’s hand, a grounding pressure that kept him solidified in the moment. Without them, nothing could have kept him from floating off like a balloon lost by an unsteady hand. 

Then Enjolras pressed closer, kneading Grantaire’s lips open with his own, and kissing him harder, with purpose. Grantaire felt Enjolras’s hand teasing the hair on the back of his neck, and Enjolras pressed sweet, chaste kisses onto Grantaire’s lips, and then he did nothing at all.

Enjolras’s entire presence, his warmth, and his cold hands, it was all suddenly missing, and Grantaire felt cold and naked in the night air without Enjolras wrapped around him. His eyes fluttered open, unwillingly, and he found Enjolras staring at him, determinedly, his fingers playing with the frame of Grantaire’s glasses.

“I have to ask,” Enjolras said, and it seemed like the words almost physically hurt.

Grantaire just nodded, numbly. 

“What’s with your ring?” Enjolras asked, weakly. For a moment, Grantaire had no idea what he was talking about.

“Oh,” Grantaire inadvertently mimicked Enjolras’s tone. “It’s not real.”

Enjolras just eyed him, warily. 

“Here,” said Grantaire, and pulled the ring from his finger. “I’ll throw it away right now, it’s nothing.”

“No, don’t,” Enjolras protested, stilling the hand that Grantaire wound up to toss it. “Don’t throw it away.”

Grantaire watched as Enjolras worked his jaw. He wanted to reach out and touch it, to comfort him. And now he could, so he did. Grantaire curved his rough fingertips up Enjolras’s smooth skin, until his palm rested on the man’s cheek. “Take it,” he murmured.

Enjolras’s eyebrows furrowed, and drunk with the proximity, Grantaire reached out with his thumb and smoothed them down. 

“Take it,” he said, again. “It’s brought me all the luck I need.”

He slipped the ring into Enjolras’s palm with his free hand, and waited until Enjolras met his eyes again, before he leaned in and brushed their lips together. The heat on his face was back, and he could feel it in his veins. Enjolras was clearly no longer restrained by anything, and he made this abundantly clear. Enjolras drew his face away, only to press hot kisses down Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire’s hand slipped from his cheek and into Enjolras’s hair, which he ran his fingers through, as he threw his head back. 

“You threw a better wedding than I could’ve,” Enjolras admitted, and Grantaire felt his words hum against his skin. 

Grantaire laughed. “You’re damn right,” his fingers knotted themselves in Enjolras’s hair further, until the man pulled away again. He was aggravatingly indecisive.

“I mean it, y’know,” he said, his voice gravely serious. 

Grantaire’s confusion was evident.

“You…your whole thing…,” Enjolras swallowed. “It makes me consider getting married. I hadn’t ever thought about it before.”

Enjolras’s eyes were painfully sincere, and Grantaire felt his heart in his throat, beating erratically. 

“You mean… Etreal changed your mind.” Grantaire asked, eyes darting between Enjolras’s. 

Enjolras kissed him again.

“ _You_ have.”

**Author's Note:**

> ok buckaroonies that was my piece thank you for reading as ALWAYS
> 
> just some source notes:  
> \- i made a moosetake and said that the title of my fic is from "of mice and men" in which it does appear BUT both my and steinbeck's usages of it come from the robert burns poem "to a mouse" which a very lovely reader to pointed out to me and i am vry grateful (and very surprised anyone actually reads these notes i make)  
> \- courfeyrac's toast references is pablo neruda's sonnet xvii because he is a major FUCKING romantic nerd and we can all laugh at him behind his back  
> \- the name etreal comes from a mixture of the words ethereal (which grantaire uses to describe enjolras) and eternal (which has more to do with marriage, and what enjolras mistakes the name to be) that's not important i just thought i'd mention it
> 
> uhhhhhh so!!! thank you again for reading i hope you enjoyed it mwa


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